Seventeen years have passed since your birth, Rāghava, and throughout each of those years I have hoped for the end of my suffering,” Kausalyā said, her voice heavy with sorrow. “Now, I can no longer bear this relentless pain, nor the mistreatment from my co-wives, even in my old age. How shall I, so wretched and pitiable, live on, deprived of seeing your face—so radiant, so gentle, shining like the full moon?” She continued, “Through fasts, disciplines, and countless hardships, I raised you in sorrow, yet all my efforts have come to naught. I am left destitute. Surely, my heart is steadfast, for it does not shatter, just as the bank of a great river withstands the fresh flood of rain. Death does not exist for me, nor is there any place for me in Yama’s realm, for Death does not seize me today, as a lion seizes a weeping doe. My heart must be made of iron, for it does not break, though it is consumed by such sorrow. Surely, untimely death does not exist. This is my greatest sorrow: that all my vows, gifts, self-restraint, and austerities performed for the sake of a child have all become fruitless, like seeds sown on barren ground. If, by chance, one tormented by such grief could obtain death before its time, I would today go to the assembly of the departed without you, like a cow bereft of her calf. What is the use of my life now, empty and without you, whose face shines like the moon? I will follow you to the forest, weak as I am, longing for my calf, like a cow.” Overwhelmed by unbearable grief, Kausalyā wept greatly, gazing at Rāghava as a celestial nymph might look upon her son bound in misfortune. Now begins the twenty-first sarga of the glorious Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, Ayodhyā Kāṇḍa. As Kausalyā lamented in this way, Lakṣmaṇa, distressed, spoke words suited to the moment. “This does not please me either, noble lady,” he said, “that Rāghava should go to the forest, abandoning royal fortune, compelled by a woman’s words. An old man, led astray and overpowered by desires—what would a king not say when pressed and agitated? I see no fault in him, nor any wrongdoing for which Rāghava should be exiled to the forest. I do not see anyone in the world, even secretly, whether friend or foe, who could declare any fault of his. Who, considering righteousness, would abandon a son who is like a god, upright, self-controlled, and affectionate even to his enemies, without cause?” Lakṣmaṇa continued, “Which son, remembering the conduct of kings, would act with a royal disposition toward a father who has returned to childishness? As long as no one knows of this matter, keep the command within yourself together with me. With me at your side, armed with my bow, who could do anything against you, Rāghava, while you are protected—just as none can act against Death standing by. O best of men, if Ayodhyā remains hostile, I will make the entire city devoid of people with sharp arrows. Whoever sides with Bharata or wishes for his welfare, I will slay them all, for the gentle are always scorned. If our father, encouraged by Kaikeyī, is not pleased with us and has become an enemy, let him be slain without hesitation, let him be slain indeed. Even for a teacher who is arrogant, ignorant of right and wrong, and has strayed from the path, discipline becomes necessary. Ruler of foes, relying on what strength or reason does he wish to give this ready-made fortune to Kaikeyī? Having made enmity with you and with me, what power does he have to bestow the kingdom’s wealth upon Bharata, O subduer of enemies? O queen, I am truly devoted in heart to my brother; by truth, by my bow, and by the sacrifices I have given, I swear to you. If Rāma enters blazing fire or the forest, know, O queen, that I will have entered there before him. With my strength, I will remove your sorrow, like the sun dispelling darkness at dawn; let the queen see my valor, and let Rāghava see it as well. I will slay my aged father, whose mind is attached to Kaikeyī, who is pitiable, childish, and condemned for his old age.” Hearing these words of the great-souled Lakṣmaṇa, Kausalyā, weeping and overwhelmed with grief, spoke to Rāma. “You should not, having heard the unrighteous words spoken by my co-wife, abandon me, who am tormented by grief, and depart from here. You are known as one who knows righteousness, and you wish to practice it most faithfully; therefore, while you remain here, serve me and perform the highest duty. A son who, dwelling obediently in his own house, served his mother—that Kāśyapa, endowed with great austerity, attained heaven. Just as the king is to be honored by you with respect, so too am I; therefore, I do not permit you—do not go to the forest from here. For me, separated from you, there is no value in life or happiness; it would be better for me to eat even grass, so long as it is with you. If you go to the forest, abandoning me who am consumed by sorrow, I will remain here fasting unto death, for I will not be able to live. Then, my son, you will incur the infamous hell, as one guilty of unrighteousness, just as the lord of rivers, the ocean, did for the sin of brahminicide.” As Kausalyā, his mother, lamented thus in her distress, Rāma, whose soul was devoted to righteousness, prepared to speak words in accordance with dharma.